


“An Ode on the Agonizing Raptures of Love . . . and Peter Parker’s Eyes in the Midst of Ecstasy” by White

by beetle



Category: Deadpool (2016), Deadpool (Comics), Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Haiku, Bad Poetry, Bad Senryu, Dating, Deadpool Thought Boxes, Deadpool being Deadpool, Declarations Of Love, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Peter, Idiots in Love, M/M, MST3K References, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Peter gets a Thought Box, Romance, Sassy Yellow, Science Boyfriends, Spideypool - Freeform, White is a Poet, Wise White, Yellow's Heart is in the Right Place
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-20
Updated: 2016-10-20
Packaged: 2018-08-23 14:29:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8331313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: Wade’s not romantic. And Peter . . .  Peter’s suddenly kind of sick of that. Fluff and light angst. Flangst. Written for a picture prompt, link in end notes. Blame White for the title, 'cause I sure do.Notes/Warnings: Set post Homecoming, but also AU for Homecoming, in that there’s no past MJ/Peter.For ImSoVain because GREAT PROMPT, and for Epervier because you're in my heart and in my thoughts, even when I'm being a grumbly, non-communicative douche-canoe.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ImSoVain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImSoVain/gifts), [Epervier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Epervier/gifts).



[White]

{Yellow}

Peter Parker was, _at last_ , on _fire_!

 

He sat on the roof outside his bedroom window—one leg tucked under him, the other hanging over the edge of the roof, his VAIO parked carefully between them—and tapped away at his laptop. He was about twenty-four _painstaking_ pages into a final twenty-five-page research paper for Professor Mortimer’s class and—though he never bragged, even to himself—not only was the paper coherent and on-point, but it was, for a guy who’d only ever gotten fair-to-middling grades in English, pretty spiffily written, too.

 

Despite his week-long struggles to _write the damn thing_ , the paper was finally writing _itself_ , from thesis to conclusion. Peter Parker was, in the parlance of MJ and many of their friends, _killin’ it_. Even his conclusion, which was usually too forceful and showed his hand way too much, managed to sound calm and objective, fair and final.

 

 _Professional_ , if you will.

 

Moonlight shone down on him in a silver spill as he worked out the last lines of his masterpiece. He subconsciously soaked it in and let it fuel his typing which was, for once, up to the task of keeping up with his thinking.

 

(He’d long since admitted to himself that he was now, whatever he’d once been, a night-owl. Or night- _spider_. He thought better and wrote better at night, under the cool and ponderous light of moon and star than he did under the harsh, arid light of the sun.)

 

Yes, Peter Benjamin Parker was in _the Zone_. After toiling away at the research for this paper for the past three weeks and attempting to write it with no success for a solid _week_ of trying; after sleepless nights spent in the library at school, at the _Bugle_ or the Avengers’ Tower; after burying himself in _anything_ else with the hopes that it’d inspire him; after ceaselessly bouncing ideas off an always-calm Gwen Stacy (easily the smartest person in their year, and Peter had no problem admitting that); after a week of nothing but school-work and _work_ -work and his internship—after a week during which his boyfriend had been suspiciously and worryingly absent, with no word of warning—Peter Parker was _at last_ one hundred percent, in the Zone- _focused_ and putting the finishing touches on the toughest paper of his young life.

 

So he didn’t notice the lateness of the hour, nor did he notice—not really, since his spidey-sense barely tingled—the eyes on him or the unstealthy, but still near-silent and practically-invisible approach of another into his territory. He didn’t hear the light footsteps coming up the porch steps or the throat that was cleared almost directly below him. He _certainly_ didn’t catch the slight shift of interrupted moonlight hitting the ground in the form of new shadows.

 

(At this late date, this _particular_ visitor could very nearly sneak up on Peter, which no one had been able to do in _years_.)

 

In fact, he didn’t notice _anything_ other than the occasional mosquitos— _ugh, spring_ . . . Peter was very much a _fall_ person—he had to wave away from his face, until his phone buzzed about ninety seconds after his spidey-sense gave that slight, announcing not-quite-tingle.

 

Humming distractedly, but fondly, Peter dug his on-vibrate phone out of his pocket, half-thinking it was Aunt May texting him from her cruise—all the way to the Bahamas and back; the first vacation she’d allowed herself since Uncle Ben passed, and certainly the first she’d ever taken _alone_ —to remind him to lock up and to not leave the toaster or coffee maker plugged in overnight.

 

Entering his lock-pin with one thumb while his other hand hunted and pecked the final words of his paper—seriously . . . the neighbors were going to come running with CO2 extinguishers, he was on so much _fire_!—he glanced away from the laptop’s gently glowing screen and dipped into his messages.

 

There _was_ a message, alright. But not from Aunt May. From _Wade_.

 

Peter stopped typing, literally _three_ words away from done, paper mostly put aside for the moment—definitely _not_ forgotten, though it was a near thing, because . . . _Wade_ —as he gazed, wide-eyed and conflicted, at his phone.

 

Wade . . . who hadn’t stopped by to see, or even so much as IMed Peter since Saturday.

 

Wade . . . who’d been cracking down on the crime Peter literally hadn’t had time to fight because of school and everything else coming to a frantic head over the past week.

 

 _Wade_ . . . whom Peter had missed _terribly_ . . . then with whom he’d grown intensely angry. Then turned depressed over. Then wondered, with a numbness born of devastation, if the other man was mad at him, or . . . or simply _tired_ of him.

 

 _Maybe_ , he’d thought morosely this morning, when he could barely get out of bed. Not because he was so tired—though, after another sleepless, unproductive night he _was_ —but because he was so damned _depressed_. Everything, even school, had suddenly seemed fantastically pointless. _Maybe this is how they let ‘em down easy in Regina, Saskatchewan. Maybe this is my boyfriend handing me my walking papers after just six months. . . ._

 

Frowning a bit, heart in his throat, Peter drew in his first breath in nearly two minutes and, with wide, suddenly blurred eyes, opened the message just as a second one came in:

 

**Wade Wilson <333: Hey hey Baby B.**

**Wade Wilson <333: U me in ur bed 1 min**

 

 _One minute?_ Peter asked himself, glancing back at his laptop for just long enough to save his work. _We’re usually in bed for a_ lot _longer than_ that _, even when we’re both pretty desperate. What does he mean by just_ one min _—_

 

Just then, Peter heard the doorbell ring below him. Then, because Wade had all the patience of a five years old, it rang _again_ , almost immediately after, as if Wade had been kept waiting for some inexcusable amount of time.

 

Never mind that _he’d_ been the one who’d kept _Peter_ waiting on tenterhooks for almost eight days, now. Never mind that Peter had spent so much time worrying if his lover was trying to leave him that he’d literally only been able to buckle-down and focus on the research paper the night before it was due—thank goodness for stress-induced inspiration and despair-deflecting distractions.

 

And now, Wade had the nerve—the absolute, unmitigated _gall_ —to come around, horny as per usual, expecting Peter to just drop everything and bend over?

 

Eyes narrowed almost to the point of being shut, Peter closed his laptop with an angry click.

 

“ _Damnit_ , Wade!”

 

#

 

Wade Winston Wilson, exhausted and pretty beat-up after spending the evening on the docks, tangoing with some of Kingpin’s boys, took his finger off Peter’s doorbell and leaned against the wall next to the door. He waited happily, though still in an annoying amount of pain from regenerating and healing, for his Baby Boy to hurry and let him in so the Sex-lympics could begin.

 

After the night he’d had, and the damage he’d taken—never mind his poor suit, which was all-over slashes and gashes because apparently Kingpin? Was now hiring ninjas to do his dirty work—all he wanted was Peter’s loving arms, the desperate possessiveness of his overwhelming kisses, and the gentle, oranges-and-vanilla sweetness of his skin . . . the tight welcome of that super-strong body as it clenched around him and anchored him. The—

 

Suddenly Peter’s front door slammed open and Wade automatically straightened up, shoulders squared and arms flexed as he turned to face the door and his sexy little Spidey.

 

“Hey-hey, swee—um. . . .” Wade fell silent and blinked at the vision before him. Dressed in his usual forty-seven layers of clothing, which included a white Henley, a grey t-shirt over that, baggy blue jeans, and— _unusually_ —bare feet, narrow and rather delicate, with long, pale, twiddling toes, Peter was wearing a _fuck_ of a lot more clothes than Wade had been expecting and hoping for. He was also carrying his laptop clutched in his arms like a Teddy bear.

 

Or maybe a chastity belt.

 

“Is it possible for you to be any _less_ romantic, Wade Wilson?” Wade’s precious, perfect bae demanded angrily, his pointy, pretty face set in a fierce scowl, his storm-grey eyes narrowed accusingly. His cheeks were flushed and his plush, pink mouth was set in a purse-lipped pout that Wade instantly _wanted_ to kiss away, but sensed maybe he shouldn’t, considering that even Peter’s shaggy, dark-brown hair—normally floppy—seemed to practically _bristle_ , at the moment, with anger.

 

“Uh—whah?” Wade tried grinning his most sexy grin, then remembered he had his mask on and shrugged helplessly, temporarily at a loss. Yellow took that moment to speak for him: “What’s up, baby? Can’t stand my sexy, in-your-face charm?”

 

And Wade knew the moment those words came tripping from his slightly chapped lips that they were the absolute _wrong_ thing to say at this, or any other moment. And _not_ just because it was _Yellow_ who'd said them. But it was too late to _un_ -say them.

 

His expression flickering rabbit-quick between surprise-hurt-upset-disappointment-weariness-anger, Peter leaned in close, that final feeling radiating off of him in waves as he glared up into Wade’s surprised eyes. And though Wade’s boy was five and a half inches shorter—not to mention fairly compact despite his _considerable_ spidey-strength—he certainly seemed to tower in this moment. “I mean, really?! _U me in ur bed 1 min_? Is that honestly the _best_ way you could think of to tell your _boyfriend,_ who’s been _buried_ under a damn research paper, work at the _Bugle_ , and an internship with the two _maddest_ mad scientists since _MST3K_ , that you . . . you maybe _missed_ him and wanna touch him and make love to him after not seeing him for almost eight days?” Now Peter’s eyes widened to the point that Wade could make out flecks of amber and green in toward Peter’s contracted pupils. And boy, were those big, pretty eyes shiny and getting a bit red.

 

{Allergies?} Yellow supplied with a shrug.

 

[It _is_ that time of year,] White noted dourly. [Ragweed and pollen abounds.]

 

 _Hmm_ , Wade thought, but had serious doubts that _Spider-Man_ had such mundane allergies. But what else _could_ it be making Peter’s eyes so watery and irritated-red?

 

“Hey, Baby Boy, why’re your eyes all shiny?” Wade asked gently, reaching out to _boop_ the tip of Peter’s pointy little pixie-nose with his gloved index finger. And for a moment, that angry expression faltered into something vulnerable and unhappy . . . something that made Wade’s chest hurt and his stomach churn, because . . . _oh, Baby Boy . . . you should_ never _look like that while_ I’m _around to do something about it_. . . .

 

And then, while Wade was processing the fact that his boyfriend _might_ be on the verge of . . . of _tears_ , Yellow took control and spoke for him again. “Not to mention all red? You been hittin’ the ol’ peace-pipe without me, Petey-pie? What _else_ ya been doin’ solo, pretty-eyes?”

 

Waggling Wade’s eyebrows suggestively, Yellow cackled loudly for a few seconds before a horrified Wade and White clamped down on the excitable Box, White huffing at his immaturity. As Yellow subsided with his usual fake-innocence, Wade was noticing the way Peter’s brows drew in and his sweet, perfect mouth trembled for a moment. _Just a moment_ , before Peter was glaring and almost snarling.

 

“You . . . JERK!” Peter jabbed Wade in the left pectoral with his index and middle fingers, and some _serious_ spidey-strength. Wade staggered back a bit, utterly confused. “You absolute . . . _fucking_ . . . JERK!”

 

“Baby Boy—” Wade began lowly, hands held out in supplication as he inwardly glowered at a cringing Yellow.

 

“I haven’t slept in, like, _four days_! And—and—J.J.’s been on the warpath for the past _five_! None of the pictures I take are _good_ enough! And Banner and Stark are on the outs _again_ and they have me running passive-aggressive messages between them like I’m a freaking carrier pigeon! And I only _just_ got a handle on the research paper from Hell after fighting with it all week—I am literally _this_ _close_ to being done with my _final_ paper for my most _demanding_ professor—and not only haven’t you called me _once_ to ask me how I’ve been doing, or if I miss you, or if I’m okay, or if I’m losing my freaking _mind_ —haven't even called to let me know how _you_ are, and that you haven't been kidnapped or worse _—_ but when you finally _do_ choose to contact me, it’s because you’re _horny_! You . . . DICK!”

 

Wade blinked and flushed. In his head, the Boxes were surprisingly silent—Yellow mostly with wide-eyed shock, White with his usual solemn consideration.

 

Peter was still ranting, his eyes shinier than ever, huge and upset and avoiding Wade’s face. “And . . . Aunt May’s only been gone for a couple days, now, but the house feels big and empty without her in it! It’s just been _me_ , by myself, the few hours I’ve actually been home! And it’s quiet and boring and makes me _lonely_ and I _missed_ you and I couldn’t _sleep_ and I thought you were trying to _end things_ between us and—and—” Peter came to a sputtering stop, one shaking hand coming up to cover his eyes for a few moments as he inhaled a breath that stuttered. It _really_ sounded like a sniffle.

 

“End things between us? _Never_ , Peter. We— _I_ —would never let you go unless you asked me to. You’ve got my _heart_ , Baby Boy. You _are_ my heart. There’s no changing that, as far as I’m concerned. The only reason I stayed away was because you said you wished you had more time to work on . . . well, _work_. So I . . . I figured I’d give you some time and space. I thought it was what you wanted. What you were too sweet to outright ask for,” White jumped forward to say when even Yellow was still speechless and for once guilt-riddled, and Wade was also at a total loss for words because of the pain that seemed to spread from high in his left chest, to the rest of him. It _totally_ drowned out the damage done by Kingpin’s boys.

 

Peter’s hand dropped away from his face, to clutch at his laptop again. But he met Wade’s eyes warily, unblinking, wet lashes fluttering with impatience. Silently thanking White, Wade took up where the Box left off. “I know I soak up a lotta your time, baby, and so does patrolling, so I kept my distance for the past week and did our patrols solo. Been keepin’ the streets safe and clean, just like you do! No worries on _that_ count!”

 

Peter snorted, watery and quiet. “Oh, yeah . . . the _Bugle’s_ been having a field-day reporting on the way you ‘mete out vigilante-style justice to every jaywalker and purse-snatcher this side of the Hudson River.’” Sighing, his narrow shoulders sagging, Peter ducked his head a bit before looking up again. The eyes that stared into Wade’s were still red, but a little less shiny. And _very_ tired. “While I’m . . . grateful to you for picking up my slack while I’ve been trying to keep my head above water, Wade . . . you could’ve _asked_ if you not being around for a while was what I wanted. If being abandoned for a week with no word and no idea _why_ was a _good_ idea, ‘cause . . . I coulda told you otherwise.”

 

Swallowing around something big and beat-y that felt like his heart, Wade reached out to brush his fingers down Peter’s smooth cheek, but stopped himself at the last moment, his hand dropping impotently to his side once more. “I know ya can’t concentrate as well when I’m around distractin’ ya with my bullshit and wantin’ to touch ya and hug ya all the time. And you’re too damn sweet and kind to just tell me to take my sorry ass elsewhere.”

 

“No, I’m not. I’m neither sweet nor kind. I'm just . . . I’m _happier_ when you’re around. So _of course_ , I wouldn’t tell you to take your _fine_ ass elsewhere. Because I _want_ that fine ass within grabbing-distance of me _always_.” Peter almost smiled. Almost. “And I _like_ being distracted by your bullshit and touches and hugs, Wade. Maybe they _ground_ me. Maybe I don’t feel right in my _own_ _skin_ without them.”

 

Wade didn’t know what to say to that. Neither did White, for once. And while they were both trying to figure out what Wade was feeling and how to speak around the throbbing lump of heart in his throat, Yellow dared to come forward again, happy and carefree, once more. “GREAT, Petey-pie . . . so . . . you and me? And your bed? One minute? Tick-tock, sexy-pants, I’m harder’n _vibranium_!”

 

All the color, softness, and fondness leached from Peter’s face as his eyes somehow widened and narrowed at the same time, his coat-hanger shoulders squared, and his hands bunched into fists as he clutched his laptop even closer, like it was armor.

 

“That’s _it_!” he gritted out, turning to storm back into his aunt’s house, muttering angrily to himself. Wade automatically took a step after him, hands once more held out in supplication.

 

“Wait, Petey-pumpkin! Where ya goin’?” he pleaded, stopping at the threshold like the world’s most pathetic vampire, as Peter turned to face him again, his eyes as hard and cold as stones left on winter-frozen ground.

 

“I _don’t_ wanna see you, Deadpool.”

 

Going cold, himself, at that icy tone _and_ Peter calling him _Deadpool_ in their off-hours, Wade turned to White in his confusion and once again, the normally facile Box had nothing to offer, seeming just as flustered as Wade. Yellow, too, was confused and, as usual when he was confused, got angry enough to wrest control of Wade’s mouth away despite White and Wade having clamped down on him.

 

“Oh, well, that’s fuckin’ _great_!” Yellow barked and sneered, and Wade was once again grateful for the mask, so Peter didn’t see his ugly-ass face made even uglier. “If you didn’t wanna see me, why’d you _say_ all that stuff about _wantin’_ me around, after all? Why’d you get all upset that I stayed away for a week? Fuck, why’d you even bother _jumpin’ down here_ , offa your little perch, Spidey-babe?”

 

In the silence that immediately followed, Peter’s wide-narrow eyes flickered again, with that painful combination of hurt and anger, and he shook his head ruefully, looking at Wade as if he was a stranger. And not a potentially _welcome_ stranger, either.

 

“First thing, Deadpool? _Birds_ perch in nests. Spiders _plot_ in their parlors.” Peter gave Wade a measuring once-over that did _not_ seem terribly impressed. His voice, when he went on, was superficially pleasant and brutally sarcastic, even though it trembled just a tiny bit. “Second? I came down here so I could slam this door in your face. Kinda like this.”

 

The next thing Wade knew, there was a wall of white wood about three millimeters away from his face and a loud _BANG_! reverberating throughout the neighborhood.

 

A few moments later, the light coming from around the edges of the slammed door and shining through the small windows to either side of it, went out.

 

Wade covered his face with his hands, fingers clenching in the leather mask as he pulled it off. Cool air hit his hot, damp face on the back of a breeze redolent of green and maybe a hint of rain the next day.

 

Wade wiped his own shiny, red eyes and sniffled.

 

“Shit,” White came forward to say. But he was speaking for all three of them

 

#

 

{I think maybe our bae wants us to be more . . . romantic-like. . . .}

 

This was the first thing Yellow had said in almost twenty minutes, since Wade had sat down with his back against Peter’s front door, arms dangling between his knees and head hanging, at a loss as to what to do. Now, at the unhelpful Box’s attempt at being helpful, Wade snorted.

 

“Ya think, Johnny Obvious?”

 

[It’s not that simple, I don’t think,] White mused quietly, giving the impression of tapping his lower lip with his finger, in deep thought. [Of course, he does _want_ romance, but I think a part of him may have finally given up on that, after tonight. May have given up on _us_.]

 

{Take that back!} Yellow blurted out angrily. {Petey-sweetie would _never_ give up on us! He _loves_ us! More than anyone ever has! He’s an _angel_ and angels _never give up_. Not even on devils like _us_!}

 

[Perhaps _this_ angel’s reached his saturation point,] White suggested sadly, then went on when Yellow was too horrified to reply. [We’ve never been good at communication. _Talking_ , yes. Communication . . . not so much. And romantic considerations, like Peter seems to want, _require_ being able to communicate. Interpersonal communication is the foundation of romance. After all, how can one _be_ what one’s lover finds romantic, if one doesn’t _know_ what one’s lover finds romantic?]

 

“Point,” Wade muttered bitterly, huffing out a tired laugh. Yellow began to sputter and stammer.

 

{But we _are_ romantic! We’re romantic as _balls_! Whadda we have to do to prove it?} the irascible Box demanded, but almost plaintively. {Should we write a poem about how we feel? And the stars and the moon and . . . stuff? Would _that_ make him take a chance on us again? Ooh! White knows how to write sonnets and sestinas and shit! He does it all the time while you’re asleep! He’s gotta metric _shit-ton_ of poetry about Petey-pie! And _some of it_ doesn’t even suck that hard!}

 

“Really?” Surprised, Wade blinked up at the sky, at the super moon and the washed-out stars sharing the heavens with it. White hemmed and hawed, before finally spitting out a terse and grumpy: [Yes. Why? Are you seriously planning to text our lover a sestina?]

 

Smiling a little, Wade dug out his phone again and unlocked it with his pin-pattern. “Meh. Not when message and data rates apply. ‘Sides, a sestina’s _way_ too long, if I’m remembering eleventh grade English correctly. And we’re not that good at communicating with words, as has been pointed out,” Wade said, with a nod to White. Then he was opening up messages and selecting the most recent recipient: _Bae <3333_. “Haiku, maybe?”

 

{Say, yeah! But with _nature!_ Nature can be _very_ helpful!} Yellow was practically turning cartwheels in Wade’s psyche.

 

[A haiku _is_ a poem about nature. The same poetry format regarding anything _else,_ but especially the expression of emotion, is called a _senryu_ ,] White said snottily.

 

{Oh, calm your tits, Lord Byron.} Yellow gave the impression of rolling his eyes. {A haiku-senryu, it is. About love _and_ nature . . . but maybe not, like, _Discovery Channel-_ nature.}

 

[Certainly not!] White huffed, sounding so offended, Wade chuckled to himself, his low, gravelly tone drifting up into the night. Yellow joined him gleefully, the easily distracted Box poking at his counterpart playfully.

 

{Remember that time we saw that documentary where the Great White ate that bear, though? That was fucking _classic_! _Shark Week_ is the _BOMB-DIGGITY,_ yo!}

 

[Truly.] Sighing after such a dry-toned agreement, White slipped to the back of Wade’s mind for a few moments, likely rifling through his storehouse of poetry. Then he was back with a grumble and empty hands. [But _Shark Week_ is _not_ romantic.]

 

{You’re not wrong,} Yellow admitted grudgingly. {Yeah, even _I_ can see where it wouldn’t be. We gotta come up with something short, sweet, and original. And we gotta do it _fast_.}

 

[Yes . . . but no pressure, right?] White snorted.

 

“’Kay, guys, let’s focus. No Discovery Channel-poems.” Wade’s finger hovered over the keypad. “Somethin’ . . . _sweet_. And in which no bears get eaten.”

 

The phone was about to go into rest-mode before White finally suggested the first line almost shyly. After a startled moment—it was _good_. Like, _really_ good. Not that Wade was any judge of _any_ poetry that didn’t start with: _There once was a man from Nantucket_ —Wade’s fingers were flying across the small keyboard.

 

#

 

Sitting against the front door, in the darkness, laptop forgotten on the hallway table with the mail and take-out menus, Peter Parker wiped at his eyes for the millionth time.

 

He’d always been impatient with his own tears, but never more so than he found himself to be at these particular moments. The moments after he . . . _maybe_ . . . broke up with his first serious boyfriend.

 

 _Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Parker,_ he told himself irritably, in a voice that sounded like a combination of his Aunt May’s and his best friend MJ’s. _You didn’t_ break up _with Wade and_ he _didn’t break up with_ you _. It was just a stupid fight because you’re tired and overly-sensitive, and he’s tired and_ in _sensitive. It was bad timing on_ both _your parts, and sometimes that happens in even the best, most stable relationships. You two have only known each other for two years and have been dating for a quarter of that. It’ll take time before you’re both on the same page more than you’re not_.

 

“But . . . he ditched me for _a week_ , then only came around because he wanted to—to fuck me!” Peter complained in a mumble to that voice, wiping at his eyes again. “There’s a difference between not being romantic and just _not_ giving a shit about the guy you’re serial-boning.”

 

That May-MJ voice snorted. _And you really think that Wade’s the latter? That the guy who’s been pining after you since before you even met, who_ wept _the first time you kissed him_ and _after the first time he made love to you—who’s spent the past week kicking ass in your name so you could focus on your paper and work and that damn_ internship _. . . not to mention giving you time and space to_ concentrate _on those things when he loves nothing more than being around you and distracting you and just_ basking _in you—you really think that_ that guy _doesn’t give a shit about you? That he only wants to_ serial-bone _you, as you so quaintly think of it?_

 

“Well. . . .” Peter sniffled pathetically. “He can’t even communicate with me to let me know that he’s _trying_ to be helpful, as opposed to slow-motion kicking me to the curb! He’s a fucking _disaster_ at being a considerate boyfriend. He _tries_ , but . . . it _always_ goes awry and _I’m_ the one who winds up hurt!”

 

_And is that so unforgivable a sin? Earnest, but clumsy attempts at being considerate and loving?_

 

“No! But it’s—it’s _painful_! It _hurts_! I don’t know how much longer I can put up him being a tone-deaf _clod_ all the time!” Peter buried his face in his hands with a soft, sad moan. “ _I’m_ trying, too. I really am. But sometimes . . . sometimes I feel like I’m the only one who _is_. That maybe taking what we have—or what he _thinks_ we have—for granted is just in Wade’s nature. Maybe it’s just who he is. Maybe . . . maybe there’s no _changing_ him and no _getting used_ to who he is,” he whispered into the darkness, even as his chest started to hurt and breathing became difficult. His stomach even started to churn. “Maybe we’re being cruel to each other: him expecting me to just get what he means and know what he feels for me, and me waiting for him to be this romantic, sweet, _dream-guy_ that I apparently can’t stop wanting him to be. Maybe . . . maybe it’s time to admit that we’re chasing after people that we’ll _never_ be for each other.”

 

 _And maybe_ you’re _giving up too soon on the_ best _thing that’s ever happened to you,_ that voice countered. _Maybe you’re too willing to fold at the first spot of trouble, because working it out with Wade will be tough_ and _painful. But it’ll be so worth it, if you_ do _tough it out. He’s not your dream-guy,_ yet _, but he’s got the_ potential _to be that, and so much more, with just a bit of tweaking. You just have to help him_ realize _that potential. If Wade does, indeed, take you for granted at all, it’s because he trusts you to love him and understand him in spite of who he is. Maybe_ because _of who he is. In any event, the road to your happily ever after will either be a stroll through Heaven or a season in Hell, and you’re the only one who can pick your road. No matter which you choose, Wade will be waiting at the end of it. Even if you leave him, it won’t be over. You’ll just be delaying the inevitable and possibly causing you both unnecessary pain._

“Well?” Peter demanded after the voice fell silent. He swiped impatiently at his leaking eyes again. “Which road is which? Which one am I choosing, if I choose to _stay_ with Wade? Heaven or Hell?”

 

 _Just like the road without him, the road_ with Wade _will be whatever_ you choose _to_ make _of it. As I said: Heaven or Hell, it's all down to you._

 

“That . . . that doesn’t make any sense!” Peter exclaimed angrily, though a part of him understood that May-MJ voice _perfectly_. _Accepting what it said_ was another matter, entirely. “That’s just silly platitudes to—”

 

Just then, Peter’s phone buzzed.

 

He _instantly_ fumbled it back out of his pocket, telling himself that he _had_ to check it STAT, just in case it _was_ Aunt May and there was some sort of problem. But once he got to his messages, he saw that it definitely _wasn’t_ from Aunt May.

 

 _Heaven or Hell . . . it’s your choice. The road is entirely of your making,_ that voice reminded him, then fell silent once more. After a moment of hesitation, Peter touched his phone with a trembling finger, to open the text.

 

**Wade Wilson <333: The stars remind me of**

**your eyes. The moonlight looks nice.**

**Can we please have sex? <3**

 

Peter could only gape for the better part of a minute. Then. . . .

 

. . . then he was burying his face in his hand and chuckling. Then laughing. Then guffawing.

 

#

 

At the laughter sounding from the other side of the door, Wade’s heart beat fast in tentative relief as he smiled.

 

_Wade Wilson, amateur poet: 1. The forces of entropy and despair: 0!_

 

{Hey! Don’t forget: White and I contributed, too! I mean, that last line, _especially_ , was GOLD!}

 

[I rather thought that _please_ was a nice touch,] White agreed in a rare seeming-compliment to Yellow, though whether or not he was being facetious, Wade couldn’t tell. All he knew was Yellow was _right_. Without them, he’d just have a middle line about some nice moonlight . . . and maybe a lifetime of loneliness to follow.

 

For all the trouble they sometimes got him into—Yellow, mostly—they were still integral parts of him. Parts of the man Peter hopefully still loved.

 

 _Hopefully_. And there was _nothing_ more hopeful to Wade than a laughing Peter Parker.

 

“Thanks for the help, guys. Couldn’t have done it without ya,” he murmured to his Boxes as he stood up and turned to face the door. A split second later it was yanked open and Peter stood in the entryway, wide-eyed and flushed, still laughing as he gazed, eyes sparkling and fond, up at Wade.

 

“W-was that a _haiku_ , Wade Wilson?”

 

“Technically, it was a _senryu_ ,” Wade informed him, shrugging, and still grinning haplessly as Peter giggled and looked at Wade as if seeing him with new eyes. Wade could only hope those new eyes were rose-colored. He held his arms wide open. “C’mere, baby?”

 

Peter snorted, covering his mouth for a moment, before rolling his eyes and reaching out to grab the front of Wade’s suit. “ _You_ c’mere,” he murmured, and tugged Wade across the threshold and into the house. Into a long, _hungry_ kiss that didn’t end even when Peter had climbed Wade’s frame like a tree and latched onto him with spidey-strength and stickiness. Nor did it end when the kiss became more like sustained, open-mouthed panting as they tried to catch their breaths some unknowable time later. And it _certainly_ didn’t end when Wade moaned and kicked the door shut behind them, then carried Peter toward the staircase, one hand on that perfect ass, the other cupping the back of Peter’s shaggy head.

 

And it didn’t end for a long time after they got to Peter’s bedroom, either.

 

#

 

“ _Romantic bastard_ ,” Peter huffed out on a panting exhale some hours later, his chest heaving against Wade’s.

 

The kiss—among some other _delightful_ things—had, finally, ended. The moon had long since set, leaving the room in a near-total darkness that Wade’s eyes could barely pierce. Also panting, he nonetheless hummed contentedly before rolling his limp, sweaty, and heavy body off of his boyfriend’s. When he settled next to Peter in the narrow bed, the smaller man instantly cuddled up against Wade, throwing one long, pale, _possessive_ leg over Wade’s.

 

“Get used to the romancin’, Petey-pie, ‘cause _this_ ex-merc is turning over _another_ new leaf: that of rom-com hero . . . Ryan Gosling-style.” Wade smirked into the darkness, up at the ceiling, his wrung-out body still zinging tiredly from skin-to-skin contact with Peter. He held his lover close, running one appreciative hand up and down his boy’s lean, smooth flank, and his smirk turned into a doofy grin as Peter snuggled even closer, one hand curled over Wade’s heart and his face tucked into Wade’s neck. “I’m _done_ takin’ your sexy ass and amazing heart for granted, Baby Boy. Finito-complete-o.”

 

“Mmm . . . sounds nice, but don’t worry about it. I’m . . . learning to adjust my thinking. And my _feeling_. Romance is as romance does, after all.” Peter chuckled sleepily then sighed. “But that voice was kinda wrong, y’know? You’re _already_ my dream-guy—no tweaking required, except to my dreams, maybe.”

 

{Huh?} Yellow sounded worried. {Is _Petey_ hearing voices, now? Does he have a Yellow and White sitting on his shoulders? Or maybe a Red and Blue?}

 

[What was that?] White wondered hopefully. [Is he . . . is he saying that even if we’re not exactly romantic, in a traditional sense, that it’s the thought and effort that counts? That he . . . that he loves us _anyway_ , for trying?]

 

“Uh . . . _what_ , Petey-pants?” _Did he just call me his dream-guy?_

 

Peter sat up just enough to buss Wade’s lips, lingering and murmuring against them. “ _You’re_ my dream-guy, Wade Wilson. Even if you’re _not_ the most romantic man in the world all the time, and even if we have to work on our communication skills . . . you’re still _everything_ I’ve ever wanted, and then some. And I love you dearly.”

 

All of him rendered speechless, for once, even Yellow, Wade palmed the back of Peter’s neck and nuzzled perpetually messy, dark hair. Then he kissed Peter’s crown and inhaled that oranges-and-vanilla scent that meant _everything_ in the world to him . . . but most especially love. And _home_.

 

“An’ I love you, sweetheart. _Forever_ ,” he whispered as Peter hummed and curled up with him again, his body weighty with contentment, half on top of Wade’s, and his breath slowing on Wade’s throat. In minutes, he was asleep, his body pliant and warm in Wade’s arms, as Wade stroked up and down Peter’s back slowly and gently.

 

Finally, Wade closed his own eyes, feeling pretty worn-out, himself. It wasn’t long before he, too, was barely conscious. “F’rever an’ ever, my Petey.”

 

Soon after, Wade Wilson had dropped off into a rare, but restful sleep.

 

#

 

{Uh, _WOW_! _That_ was even better than _Shark Week_ , yo! For-realsies!} Yellow whispered happily, and sleepily, as well. White chuckled, already wrapping himself up in the cocoon of psychic darkness that passed for privacy between himself and Yellow.

 

[You’re not wrong,] he replied absently, already composing the first line of yet another sonnet . . . this one on the agonizing raptures of love . . . and Peter Parker’s eyes in the midst of ecstasy. Perhaps he _might_ one day even let Wade recite _this one_ to Peter. [Sweet dreams, Yellow, my friend.]

 

{You know it.} The other Box yawned hugely and gave the impression of rolling over and fluffing a pillow. {G’night, White. Happy sonneting. . . .}

 

And the rest was silence.

 

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: [ARTWORK](http://creature13.deviantart.com/art/191114-romantic-495484484)!
> 
> [Follow me on Tumblr](https://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com/)!


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